The Heart of the Mountain
by Ainulinde
Summary: Bilbo had enough. Of everything. In general. He wants to smoke his pipe in peace and chase fauntlings off his lawn, thank you very much. He did not sign up for a surprise visit of an old family friend, an even more surprising visit of a band of dwarves, and an entirely unnecessary adventure. He also did not expect Thorin Oakenshield to be so bloody handsome.


Bilbo wished he were brave enough to stare down those foreign, blue eyes and tell their self-entitled owner he can fetch his own seed cake, thank you very much.

He wished he could have locked the door and blow the candles and shoo the jolly, messy, dwarf-shaped locusts away.

He wished he were brave enough to be rude to his rude guests. He wished he could snuff that knowing smile from Gandalf's beaming face. He wished for many things.

He wished that dwarf leader, whatever his name was, weren't so bloody handsome.

He wished, as he carried the last of his seed cakes and offered it to the dwarf (who didn't even bother to look up and acknowledge his presence, the arrogant prick) that his eyes weren't so vividly blue, that his presence didn't storm through Bilbo's entire being and filled his humble abode with dreams of adventure, that his voice didn't vibrate within Bilbo's very core, that he didn't smell of earth and rain and ashen pipe-smoke…

He hid in his room, waiting for the normalcy of his life to settle around him and erase Thorin Oakenshield from his thoughts. He fell asleep, dreaming of foreign words and blue eyes and dragons.

Oddly enough, he was displeased to wake up and find the merry company (and its grumpy leader) gone. Almost like a night vision he didn't dream to its end and now, once awake, failed to remember – he wished for more.

He wanted more.

Bilbo dashed out of his house, contract in hand and handkerchief forgotten, to chase yesterday's dream of blue, blue eyes.

* * *

All right. Very well. Fine. He can – yes. He can finally go outside.

Bilbo waited for the giant bee to pass, then sighed in undeniable relief. He saw quite a bit of creatures ever since he left his doorstep – trolls, for one thing, and quite a bit of elves, and goblins, and too much dwarf, thank you very much, but giant bees (definitely larger than he) were the limit, even for a nature loving creature such as himself. Luckily, just like normal-sized bees, the unnaturally gargantuan version also disappeared at night to… somewhere. Probably a hive. A giant hive. Bilbo shivered.

"Cold?" someone said. Or coughed, Bilbo wasn't sure. It certainly sounded like a cough.

Bilbo turned around to find the all mighty Thorin glaring at him too intently for someone who just coughed. He looked around, discovered he was alone, then turned back to face Thorin, whose glare darkened. Bilbo tried as appeasing smile (it may have been a grimace) and shifted in discomfort. "I… think it's quite warm, actually," he answered, still not uncertain if Thorin coughed or spoke.

The man emerged from the shadows to join him on Beorn's porch. "You shivered," the man accused. Or pointed out. Or… was trying to make conversation? No, accused.

Bilbo opened his mouth, then closed it. The dwarf declared him unfit a day ago, so he wasn't about to give him another reason to think him useless. He shrugged. "Did I?" then turned and continued his walk. Beorn's garden was lovely, and Bilbo wished for nothing more than a quite night of pipe-smoking amongst the flowers and the stars.

"Where are you going?" Thorin demanded.

Bilbo paused, annoyed. He had half a mind to tell the king to bugger off and find someone else to annoy. In fact, Bilbo was vexed enough to do just that. He turned around, mouth set in his practiced "get-off-my-porch" grimace, only to be faced with stormy blue eyes set in a hesitant face, jaw clenched tight.

"Smoking," Bilbo blurred, quite unwillingly. He unveiled his pipe, shuffling his feet. "Would…" He pursed his lips, then darted another glance in Thorin's direction, whose fists uncurled slightly. "Would you like to join me?" he offered.

The dwarf straightened, then offered a gracious nod. He marched toward Bilbo.

Bilbo, alarmed by the unblinking stare, took a step back, stumbled, found his balance, ignored Thorin's hand offered in support, and searched for an adequate spot. Great job, Bilbo. Very relaxing.

"… _I have never been so wrong in all my life…"_

 _Hands, strong and demanding, pulled him into a hug – crushed him against a hard chest as arms, thick and muscular, engulfed him, all of him. The gesture knocked the air out of him, and the world grew silent. He breathed with difficulty, filled his chest with Thorin's scent, blood and sweat and dirt and Thorin, and he… he was melting. The warmth of Thorin's body melted him. His hand rose to accept – reciprocate – hug the impossible dwarf –_

 _Cheers hollered by the company burst the bubble of growing warmth that bloomed inside of him, and Bilbo sobered. The hands that longed for an embrace settled for an awkward pat._

 _When Thorin pulled away, all Bilbo felt was cold._

"You shivered again."

"H-hmm?" Bilbo froze. He looked up. Stormy blue eyes, forehead furrowed… was that concern?

Bilbo realized, to his horror, that he was blushing. He looked around frantically, then waddled toward a deserted log and tumbled into a sitting position. "This… err. Seems like a good spot."

He then proceeded to busy himself with the pipe. Were his cheeks still red? He didn't dare to check.

It took a moment, but Thorin followed and sat – much more gracefully, no, _majestically –_ next to him. Bilbo could feel the King staring at him. It was really disconcerting. That, and the fact that he couldn't get a good grip on his pipe, let alone fill it.

"Do you require ass-"

"I can light my own pipe, thank you," Bilbo snapped, despite plenty of proof to the contrary.

Next to him, Thorin fished out his own pipe from gods know where and filled it, then lit it. He leaned back, huffing smoke like a long-drawn sigh, and his shoulder brushed Bilbo's.

Bilbo dropped his pipe.

Bilbo surrendered. He stared at the sky, thinking why oh why he ever listened to his Took blood. Why, he could have been in his armchair, reading his books and smoking his pipe and not spending nights dreaming about blue eyes, thank you very much. He looked down in defeat, hoping Thorin didn't notice any of that, to find a strong, poised hand holding his pipe, already lit.

Bilbo followed the expressive fingers to take in the sight of the forearm, free from a glove, then the muscular arm, then those cursed blue eyes, doing their absolute best to delve into him.

Bilbo accepted the pipe, puffed into it to check the quality of the fill, and looked away. His cheeks burned.

He could still feel Thorin's eyes on him. It occurred to him he should have thanked the dwarf. "Thank you," he muttered. Then it dawned on him that the one minute delay rendered the thanking awkward and unnecessary. He grimaced.

Thorin hmmed, taking another draw from his pipe. "Why'd you pick this spot?"

That sounded almost like another accusation, but when Bilbo raised his head, tongue sharpened and ready to tell him to find his own spot if this wasn't to his liking, his angered eyes encountered the curious blue – that was immediately darkened by confusion and a guarded glint.

Oh. The king was trying to hold a _conversation_. By all that is green, Thorin was…

Nope. Don't let that hug get into your head, Bilbo. Accusation. Yes.

Bilbo looked away. "Seemed like a good spot. Has… flowers. And." Wrong thing to say. "Clear view of the sky," he mumbled. Flowers. Way to go.

Thorin nodded. "You… like flowers?"

All right. That was not an accusation. Didn't sound like one, at least. Bilbo's ears flushed bright pink. "Well, yes. They smell nice. Look… nice. Remind me of ho– " He coughed instead.

Thorin was still bloody looking at him, though the almost vulnerable look was replaced with the creased forehead. "Is the pipe too strong?"

"Hmm?" Bilbo looked up involuntarily. He gasped, quite foolishly, then clamped his mouth when the crease deepened. "What? No – perfect, perfectly… fine. Fine." Dear Yavanna, please make Thorin stop looking at him.

Thorin, however, ignored his pleas and continued in his attempt to render Bilbo's brain useless. "Are you sick?"

Bilbo frowned and looked pointedly away. "No. not at all – quite fine – why'd you think that?"

Thorin did seem taken aback by Bilbo's tone. He looked down and immediately stirred regrets in Bilbo's belly.

"You… you coughed, and shivered, and your ears are red… I meant no offense."

Oh. Oh, gods. That quiet voice would be the end of him. Bilbo glanced at Thorin sitting hunched, fists clenched and pipe forgotten.

"I am sorry," the King said, "for my… unfair treatment of you. It was unkind and undeserved. Forgive – no." The dwarf shook his mane and turned to face Bilbo, head bowed. "I wish to earn your forgiveness, Master Baggins."

Bilbo blinked. That was, to say the least, unexpected.

"Err. None… no… need. No – "

"You saved my life after I have been unappreciative of your efforts - "

"I think you mean pedantic, arrogant, outright rude, self-centered, impossible to please leader. But yes. Unappreciative is another way to put it," Bilbo snapped.

Thorin turned to glower at him but found himself equally matched by Bilbo's unwavering scowl.

The King swallowed his grimace and pride and nodded. "Yes. I would like to apologize for that behavior." He then dared a glance in Bilbo's direction that was too endearing – wrong word – out of place? Out of place – for Bilbo to dismiss entirely.

He decided to scoff. A scoff was safe and did not assume too much of the grumpy dwarf's strange behavior. "An apology implies you are to change that behavior."

"I know that," Thorin protested. He puffed his chest, which meant another uncomfortably majestic speech about woe and honor was coming, "Master Baggins, I shall endeavor to – "

"Bilbo."

Thorin deflated. His eyes abandoned the bejeweled sky to gaze at his less bejeweled companion, lost.

Bilbo realized he should probably clarify. "My name is Bilbo."

Thorin's mind was clearly racing in all the wrong directions. "I know your name, Master – "

Bilbo huffed a cloud of smoke before turning to look at Thorin. "I meant, you should call me Bilbo. Because, well, it is my… name. So." He furrowed his brow, trying to remember what he wanted to stay. Thorin's eyes clearing of shadows of confusion and doubt and whatever else darkened them before was a beautiful sight.

"Bilbo…" Thorin whispered, tasting it on his tongue.

Bilbo's eyes widened, cheeks flushing pink. He shivered.

Thorin shrugged out of his coat and draped – no, _dumped_ – it on Bilbo's shoulders.

Bilbo, flustered, protested the added weight, "Thorin, I told you, I am not cold – "

"You shivered three times already," the King dismissed him. "How can I prove I am not… 'self-centered,' as you called me, if I ignore your needs?"

Bilbo ceased fighting the heavy coat when he discovered the soft fur that tickled his cheeks smelled like Thorin. "…Needs?" he choked.

Thorin's eyes darted, as if calculating, then returned to face Bilbo, full of gravity and solemn kingly nonsense. "Yes. It is my duty –"

"Oh, bugger your duty," Bilbo snapped. He shrugged out of the coat, comforting scents be damned. "I am not some helpless hobbit for you to p-practice your dutiful… duties. On. I do not _need_ you to look after me. I don't want to be on the receiving end of _duty_." He pointedly ignored the hurt that flickered in Thorin's once again hooded eyes.

Thorin's hand hesitated. Instead of accepting the coat, his fingers engulfed Bilbo's offering hand, brushing his knuckles. "I did not mean to insinuate that, Bilbo. I meant," he muttered as his fingers eased Bilbo's hold of the coat and enticed them to intertwine with his, "that I want to care for you, should I… be permitted."

Oh, those blue eyes will be the end of him. Thorin's hand was warm and his fingers tender. His touch was hesitant. Bilbo looked away before Thorin's eyes melted him entirely. "Ahem. You… you are permitted," he mumbled.

Thorin tightened his hold. The firm, warm grip made him feel impossibly… safe. Heart pounding in his chest, he reciprocated the gesture, fingers exploring the callous skin, the rough knuckles, the old scars. A warrior's hand.

Daring – because that was what he became, apparently – to push his luck, Bilbo shuffled closer to Thorin and leaned his head against Thorin's shoulder.

He tensed. What if Thorin were to pull away? What if that was not his intention? What if –

But Thorin's grip did not waiver. His fingers continued to caress Bilbo's hand. The dwarf released a sigh of spicy smoke into the cold night's air. Bilbo breathed in the smoke and softened, molded himself to fit Thorin's hard frame.

It was unspeakably comfortable.

* * *

Bilbo sneezed. It was his third sneeze that night.

He sat next to a fire prepared for him by the men of Lake-Town and stared at the merry flames. He tried to stare them down before, but the fire proved immune to glowers and instead made his eyes water, so he settled for annoyed scowling. That didn't impress the fire, either. When did anyone find his glowers impressive, or, better yet, bother to care that he was upset?

Bilbo tried to think back, then gave up. It was almost, but not quite, as depressing as sitting alone on the outskirts of a makeshift camp. Bilbo burrowed firmly into the blanket – one that smelled strongly of soot and salt and sardines – and waited for Gandalf.

What other reason could he possibly have to sit, alone, in the cold, in the exact opposite direction (and the farthest spot he could find) of Erebor? None whatsoever, thank you very much.

Bilbo stared harder into the fire. Gandalf said he'd be back soon. He did.

"Bilbo?"

Bilbo froze. It must be the fire, playing tricks on him.

The speaker limped closer – Bilbo could tell he was limping because of the sound of a heavy stomp, then the thud of a cane hitting the frozen earth, then a longer, dragged out stride. Then again, stomp, thud, drag.

The speaker dragged himself a few steps forward, then stopped. "May I join you?"

A deep voice, velvety yet not perfectly smooth, like the rumble of ancient stones. The baritone hesitated. The voice almost sounded unfamiliar, quiet and humble, not proud and commanding. Still, the rough velvet caressed the tips of his ears and echoed within his stomach, bubbling within his chest.

"You picked quite a spot," Thorin continued, desperate to fill the silence. Was that a pained hitch in his voice? "Very… far."

"I'm supposed to leave," Bilbo blubbered. He was unkind, he knew that. He couldn't bring himself to care.

"Leave? When?" Urgency. Was there urgency –

Bilbo pulled the blanket tighter, then frowned at himself for revealing he was cold. "When Gandalf returns."

Thorin exhaled. He sounded pained. "Bilbo – "

He could no longer ignore the pain in the dwarf's voice. "Sit down before you fall down, will you?" He looked up, finally managed to tear his eyes from the fire and look up at Thorin. He stared at the fire for too long and for a moment, all he could see was bright spots of yellow and blue. He rubbed his eyes, trying to regain his sight, and missed the look on Thorin's face as he lowered himself painfully, almost stumbled, to a sitting position.

The hissed growl of pain made Bilbo look up – too soon, for all he could see still was blobs of brightness – and a tear slid down his cheek.

A pained intake of breath. "Bilbo – "

He rubbed his cheeks and eyes again, aggressively this time. "It's the fire. Just… are you even supposed to be up?" he chastised, trying to stir the conversation away from him and… emotional matters. It must have been the fire.

"Yes." Was that a scowl?

Bilbo looked up. Yes, he could almost see that trademark scowl. He missed that – "Did Oin allow this?"

Thorin shifted, discomfort evident. "I… no. I managed," he protested, "I didn't think you'll camp… this far," he added, voice careful.

"Hmm. Did Balin fail to mention that?" Bilbo bit, again. He grimaced and waved his hand. "Is that why you're here? Because I didn't come as _commanded_?"

Thorin's eyes widened. They darted away, then back to Bilbo's face, and finally settled on the flames. "Aye. It is said, if Durin won't come to the Mountain, the Mountain must come to Durin."

"My name is Bilbo."

"I know. I know your name." Thorin focused his gaze on Bilbo. Bilbo forgot how penetrating those blue eyes were. "I did not command you, Bilbo. I…"

"First, you banish me – No, first, you try to kill me, _then_ you banish me – "

"Bilbo – "

" – then you scare me to death by _almost dying in my arms – "_

"Bilbo, I didn't intentionally wound myself – "

" – Then you command me to return, after – "

"Bilbo!"

Bilbo's words died on his lips. He looked up, startled by the desperation in Thorin's voice.

The King wore no finery. Nothing remained of the former vanity. His eyes were pained, but Bilbo could not guess the source of his hurt. He refused to think it may have been him. Still, the man faced him, lips parted but silenced. He wore the coat that smelled of their journey – of pipe-smoke and earth and labor and medicinal herbs. Medicinal herbs. His cane, Bilbo noticed, was a simple branch grasped tightly in a white-knuckled fist.

"You shouldn't be here," Bilbo muttered, then quickly added upon hearing Thorin's broken exhale, "I – I mean, you should be… recovering. Yes." He dared to look up, eyes meeting Thorin's uncertainly.

Thorin's eyes shone with longing, jaw locked and teeth gritted.

Bilbo wanted to take that pain away. He wanted to hold Thorin's face in his and heal Thorin's wounds with a touch. "Does it hurt?" he whispered. His eyes darted back to his hands, clutching the blanket.

Thorin inhaled, then muttered, voice raspy, "Walking does. But that is a sacrifice I am willing to make, Bilbo. The least of all sacrifices. And while I am glad I managed to find you before your departure… I would have walked all the way back to Bag End. Surely, you must know I would have, Bilbo, you must know – "

"Don't be ridiculous," Bilbo admonished, ears burning red. "You – always pretending to be all well and indestructible – you are half dead, judging by that pained expression! What kind of king are you, risking your health like that? Fili is a good lad, but he is not ready for – don't look at me like that, Mr. King Under the Bloody Mountain, you are reckless, and you know it! And – "

"Bilbo." Thorin's lips quirked upward. He groaned in pain as he shifted closer to Bilbo and placed his hand on Bilbo's chin, tilting his head to look up at those unfairly blue eyes.

For a short moment, Bilbo's heart went on an unexpected adventure all of its own.

"Bilbo, surely you know my pain isn't one Oin can remedy?" Thorin's eyes sought his, delving into him.

It took Bilbo a moment to remember how to breathe. "O…oh? I-is the… the wound permanent? Or… something?" He had no idea what he said, but judging by Thorin's ghost of a smile, it must have been stupid.

"No. Physical wounds, Oin can heal. But there are ailments that even the best of healers cannot cure." Thorin's voice faltered, then tumbled, as if pushed from collapsing lungs. "You can end my suffering, Bilbo."

Warmth pooled in Bilbo's chest, heat whose source was not the fire or the blanket he was still crushing in his fists. "Do you… do you need me to burgle something? I'm getting better at it, I think."

Thorin's smile warmed, but the longing returned to his eyes, the pain fresher still. "No, Bilbo. Bilbo," he rasped, voice urgent still, "I am sorry, so sorry, for all I had done to you. For all the pain and horror I put you through. I want you to stay. Stay, Bilbo. Please."

Bilbo swallowed. Well, tried. He felt as if a boulder decided to take up residence in his throat. "Thorin…" he whispered. He pried Thorin's hand from his cheek and held it in his hands. "I'm sorry."

Thorin's hand gripped both of his quite desperately. His other hand rose to cup Bilbo's cheek and tangle in his hair. "Bilbo – Bilbo, please, I…" His voice was desperate. The words died on his lips. "Bilbo," he breathed. His eyes sought Bilbo frantically.

Bilbo could not tear himself entirely from Thorin's touch. "I… I can't Thorin. I have – I have life on the other side of the mountains. I can't just – "

"You already left, Bilbo!" Thorin held on to him. Bilbo found no comfort in the act. "You left them – What, what about the life you created here? What about… what about us, Bilbo?"

Bilbo felt cold. He sat next to a blazing fire, covered in a wool blanket, next to _Thorin_ , and felt cold. So cold. "You tried to kill me."

Thorin's features collapsed. Must have been his injuries. He should not have left his bed, the fool. Reckless fool. Why was he here, risking his health?

"I was not myself, Bilbo! You know I'd never hurt you! Bilbo, lukhudel, I… please, tell me what can I do to convince you to stay. Please, Bilbo – "

Bilbo tore himself from Thorin's grip; Thorin's touch; Thorin.

"You can't Thorin. I'm sorry."

"Bilbo – "

"Leave me, please." His voice was colorless. He was cold. "You should… you should go back, to your… mountain and your people and… and make sure you heal. Heal properly. Isn't this what you wanted? To be… a king, and all that?"

"No, Bilbo. I want you by my side. More than anything."

Bilbo's lower lip trembled. He bit it before words he had no intention of saying could escape. "Should've thought about that before you tried to throw me off the wall."

"Bilbo, ghivashel – "

"Good night, Thorin."

Bilbo sat, locked in his position, hugging himself and staring at the fire. He waited, frozen, until he heard that sound pattern again – stomp, thud, drag. Stomp, thud, drag.

Must be the smoke, making him cry.

* * *

Thorin's eyes refused to leave him alone. As usual, it was all about him. About Thorin. Thorin and his impossible quests. Thorin and his death march, Thorin's blood in the snow, Thorin calling for him, Thorin limping… begging him to stay. Thorin.

"…Bilbo? Is everything all right?"

Bilbo looked up to find Gandalf gazing at him with concern.

"Err… yes, yes. Why not? Did you say something?"

"Hmm," Gandalf cocked an unconvinced brow. "I must have. Can't remember now."

"Helpful," Bilbo muttered.

"Quite a journey ahead of us," Gandalf continued jovially. "Mirkwood, mountains covered in snow, dangerous encounters…"

"Lovely," Bilbo gritted. "How is this any different from the journey here?"

"Why, you might have noticed we lack thirteen dwarves?"

Bilbo rolled his eyes. He decided to look pointedly away in hopes that Gandalf would get the message.

"Quite a journey, wasn't it? But now that Thorin isn't here, I am sure we can enjoy it." The old man, of course, did not get the message. "An annoying fellow, isn't he? The stubbornness of the dwarves, of course, can't blame him for it. Must admire his courage, even if a healthy ounce of fear would have saved me a headache or two. Hmm, yes."

Bilbo glared at his surroundings with newfound purpose.

"Though I must say, I did not expect to leave the Mountain without his heart."

"The Arkenstone was returned. Thorin's decision to bury it with the fallen was an honorable one. And while he is stubborn and selfish and reckless – everything he did, he did for his people, so I would thank you if you dropped the subject," Bilbo hissed.

"Is that so? I am glad that is your opinion of him. I would have thought you hated him because of how he tried to kill you when he was sick," Gandalf said innocently.

"How did you come to that conclusion is beyond me," Bilbo snapped. "Forget it, I don't want to – "

"How?" Gandalf stopped his horse, bushy eyebrows furrowed. "You are leaving him, aren't you?" the wizard accused. "Which is understandable, since all your possessions are on the other side of the Misty Mountains. If you value them over him, then clearly – "

Bilbo pulled the reins hard, ignoring the pony's protesting neigh. "I do not!" he objected. "I am leaving because of… reasons. Other reasons. That have nothing to do with… with anyone. Or anything. Can we ride? In silence?"

Gandalf shrugged. "As you wish." They rode in silence. Gandalf took out his pipe and filled it. "Of course, when I said that we are leaving the Mountain without his heart, I did not mean the Arkenstone. You see, the Mountain is a metonymy in dwarven culture. It symbolizes the king."

Bilbo paled. He looked down. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, I think you do. The heart always knows." Gandalf smiled. "Now, would five feet of snow be – Bilbo?"

Bilbo, with a loud, annoyed huff, turned his pony around and kicking it to a gallop.

He had a mountain king to visit.

* * *

Thorin glared at the pile pf paperwork before him. The pile seemed to develop consciousness and glared back.

Thorin rubbed his temples. He rose and wandered toward the window, eyes soaking in the winter blue sky, and the… was that Bilbo?!

He almost stumbled, leaning on the glass. No. No, you fool. How could that be Bilbo? He rode away this morning. Besides, Bilbo would never ride this recklessly on a pony. Bilbo hated riding. Bilbo… everything looked like Bilbo to him lately. He stared at the window, taking in the sight of the workers, rebuilding the fortress. Erebor shall be great again; he will see to it. If only he could stop dreaming of honey curls and brown eyes…

Even the argument that ensued between the guards outside his office sounded like Bilbo.

Mahal bless the lads – they were too enthusiastic. And loud.

He marched toward the doors. "Gimli, Flói, keep it…" Honey curls. Brown eyes. "Bilbo?" he choked.

The hobbit freed his arm from Gimli's grip. He straightened. "Yes. That's… me."

Thorin had to know it was him. Really him. He rushed out of the door, then froze, eyes searching – seeking – begging.

Bilbo, ears blushing red, grabbed Thorin's hand and pulled him into his office. He then promptly closed the doors in the guards' shocked faces.

"Bilbo?" Thorin managed. Hope. That was hope, burning within him. Hope that –

Bilbo, eyes determined and ears still red, closed the distance between them. He balanced himself on his tiptoes as his hands rose to tangle in Thorin's hair and beard and pull him down for a clumsy kiss.

Thorin, frozen, broke the kiss to release a broken gasp. "Bilbo, are you – are you here to stay? You are staying– "

"Yes." Bilbo silenced him. "I'm staying. As long as you want me." He pulled him down again, lips fervently seeking lips, fingers seeking purchase –

"Forever," Thorin rasped. "I want you to stay forever. But you said your... life, property – "

"Thorin." Bilbo cupped his face in his hands. Held him up. His eyes, brown and soft, no longer fidgeted with hesitation or hurt. He looked at him, unwavering. His hands held him, no longer hovering.

"Thorin, I'm staying. Shut up and kiss me."

Thorin obeyed. His hands pulled Bilbo's body against his, one arm wrapped around his waist while the other tangled in those curls that haunted his dreams yet remained beyond his reach. He stroked them, memorized the silken sensation of softness never soiled. His lips caressed Bilbo's, savoring the moment, before the impatient hobbit rushed to claim the kiss he ordered.

Thorin gasped, then sighed in surrender and kissed him, holding him and on to him as if to root the moment in reality; root Bilbo in his arms. He bit Bilbo's lower lip, cherishing the breathless sigh and marveling at the foreign, intoxicating taste. His heart hammered at the sensation of Bilbo's body, anchored against his; at the feeling of Bilbo's fingers, exploring him, pulling him closer. Closer.

"Are…" Thorin pulled away, lips still seeking Bilbo's. He had to know. "Are you really staying?" he muttered breathlessly.

"Thorin," Bilbo sighed, cupping his cheeks. "That was the most, no, second most reckless thing I have ever done. I did not… I kissed you because I love you, you," he kissed him again, "pedantic, "another kiss, "arrogant," hands wrapped around Thorin's neck, "outright-rude," a playful perk, "impossible to please," a sigh trapped between willing lips, "oaf."

"Oaf?" Thorin chuckled, fingers grazing the tip of Bilbo's pointed ear, eliciting a sigh. "That's a new one."

"You deserve it." Bilbo's fingers traveled higher, tracing the line of Thorin's cheekbone. "Oaf."

"You forgot self-centered," Thorin muttered as he bowed his head to claim those lips – those fleeting lips that were always beyond his reach –

"I thought you proved you aren't?" Bilbo chuckled breathlessly. He looked up, eyes shining with warmth and tenderness, as he caressed Thorin's lips with his.

Thorin growled, hands tightening their hold, pulling Bilbo ever closer. "You said that was the…" He exhaled weakly when Bilbo's fingers caressed the sensitive skin behind his ear. "The… second most reckless…? What was the first?"

Bilbo smiled, brow cocked. "Why, leaving with a bunch of rogue dwarves in the first place." He caressed Thorin's neck, fingers sneaking underneath the soft tunic. "You know, it's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to… Thorin!"

Thorin lifted the hobbit and sat him on his desk. "I'll keep that in mind."

Whatever argument Bilbo prepared surrendered on his lips as Thorin kissed him and transformed into a soft, sweet sigh.

* * *

Lukhudel- light of all lights

Ghivashel- treasure of all treasures

To Sharon - Thank you so much for donating to Planned Parenthood, and thank you for choosing me to write this one-shot for you.

I hope you liked it! If you did, please leave a review! It means the world to me


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